


Soldier's Poem

by Nibsy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Song Lyrics, Song fic, Songfic, Stucky - Freeform, stevebucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 04:40:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18931444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nibsy/pseuds/Nibsy
Summary: "Bucky is tired of war; he never chose it. But it was true yesterday, and it still is today – wherever Steve goes, he will follow; that’s just the way they are."





	Soldier's Poem

**Author's Note:**

> This only happened because Endgame left me feeling angsty and I stumbled upon the song "Soldier's Poem" by Muse just at the right (or wrong) moment. I don't know if this is any good, but it sure was a good vent <3

**_**Throw it all away, let’s lose ourselves** _ **

 

If only he’d stayed with him, for once, instead of trying his stupid tricks to get enrolled. Bucky will never understand that obsession of Steve’s for the war. The right thing to do? Please. There is no right or wrong there, only danger. Only death.

God, Bucky can’t think about that now. He can’t think of Steve dying out there, far from him, all alone in some strange country’s mud.

Sure, he should be thinking about himself, his own danger. But that’s too abstract. He doesn’t know what’s coming for him, and maybe that’s for the best. And maybe he’ll die out there, and maybe that, too, isn’t so bad. But it’s Steve he’s worried about. Steve and his asthma that’s been acting up again, and his stupid moral compass that’s bound to lead him in bad places at some point or another. Steve all alone in Brooklyn, or all alone in the war for months, maybe years... Shit, Bucky can’t think of that either. He’ll go insane.

Hopefully Steve will think to write to him, but Bucky doesn’t dare believe he will. He should have stayed with him tonight. It’s fine. Bucky’s stopped dreaming long ago that Steve would ever stop fighting.

 

**_**_'Cause there's no one left for us to blame_ ** _ **

**_**_It's a shame we're all dying_ ** _ **

**_**** _ **

Bucky’s drunk. Or at least he thinks he is, it doesn’t feel quite right. The night is young and people are laughing too loud in that old pub – soldiers, all of them. Bucky used to love these barking, drunken laughs in bars, and the music, God, if Bucky didn’t like a good tune... Tonight the piano is drowned in all the noise as are Bucky’s thoughts, and the laughs have become too similar to gunshots and bombs.

Steve is laughing too; if Bucky doesn’t recognize him entirely, at least his laugh hasn’t changed. He hates that Steve is laughing without him. He’s sitting over there, all big and strong, with his chest rising fully as he laughs and not a cough in sight – and all the attention is on him. How surreal. Bucky shouldn’t feel that way, he knows it. He wants to go to bed. Anywhere would be fine, he just wants out of here.

Steve comes his way, so he stays, downing whatever’s in his glass in the half hope to drown out the dizziness. Steve is giddy with excitement: it’s adorable, really. That big idiot. Now that he’s so big, those strong legs will run him into trouble even faster than before. Bucky doesn’t care anymore, he’s decided. He doesn’t care about anything much these days.

Steve says something self-righteous, he sure feels important today – Bucky is pissed. Reminds him that he knows him better than himself, reminds him not to get too cocky, because not that long ago, Bucky was all he had in this dreadful world. He doesn’t say it like that, though, but he knows Steve got him. Bucky doesn’t dare look up; he doesn’t want to see the smile that just dropped, the disappointment in his best friend’s face. He’s ruined his night, hasn’t he.

He makes a joke, immediately regrets it. But Steve smiles a little, and his gaze searches Bucky’s. It’s Steve; he’s right there. Bucky missed him. Every night out on the battlefield, when each could have been his last, Bucky thought of those blue eyes and thought, and thought again, that all was better this way.

But now Steve is here, his blue gaze is on Bucky, and the future is uncertain again – as uncertain as can be, so Bucky decides right then and there, though it was never a question: wherever Steve goes, however stupid, however dangerous, Bucky will follow without a second thought.

 

**_**_And do you think you deserve your freedom_ ** _ ** **_**_?_ ** _ **

**_**_How could you send us so far away from home_ ** _ **

 

They march for days on end, under skies grey with smoke and rain, and they might as well be anywhere now; Bucky’s lost track a long time ago. Now there is only the next fight, and Bucky has also forgotten how to fear. It’s like he forgets something new, every day.

It’s different from the trenches, of course. Less busy work, more focus. Bucky wouldn’t say he likes it more, though. It’s just one of those things; a meaningless trade, blood for different blood, land mines for time bombs, that’s all, and Bucky’s tired of walking, and he's tired of thinking about the next step.

He wonders about Steve – is he scared, sometimes, like Bucky is... of what they have become? Of what more could happen?

At night they all huddle together – Bucky and Steve and the boys, and they make small talk to forget that none of this is normal, but that’s just the thing, isn’t it?

This is normal, now.

 

**_**_When you know damn well that this is wrong_ ** _ **

 

Steve’s changed, that’s the worst part. He was always serious, but now he really is; it’s not about morals anymore. He talks tactics and plans missions, and his humour comes out a little too dry, a little too sparse. He’s always bruised in some way or another – only thing that reminds Bucky that he’s still Steve, somewhere behind that shiny shield. Bucky’s not sure Steve remembers Brooklyn, most of the time. Bucky’s forgotten about it himself, but that was bound to happen.

Steve was never supposed to change. He wasn’t supposed to stop drawing silly things and cityscapes into his scruffy notebooks. His eyes didn’t have to lose that childlike wonder that they had at times, but then again, nothing is too inspiring here in this godawful muck, with only cold and death all around, all the time... Still. Steve wasn’t supposed to kill so easily.

 

**_**_I would still lay down my life for you_ ** _ **

 

They overlook the train tracks, far away down the ravine. It’s freezing cold – or it should be, Bucky doesn’t feel it. Convinces himself that it’s habit, exhaustion. Anything. Whatever; Steve’s in a good mood. They’ve been tracking this lead for weeks. The train will be there soon; this is it. A leap into the air, another battle to fight. Bucky’s trusty rifle sits heavy in his hands, frightfully familiar. It’s gonna be dangerous. It always is. Bucky doesn’t want to think about the danger, only Steve’s mood, and his own. So he jokes around... And Steve’s laugh is just for him.

 

**_**_And do you think you deserve your freedom_ ** _ ** **_**_?_ ** _ **

**_**** _ **

The snow is cold and wet against his back, and for once he feels it. It’s the only thing he feels, not the pain, not the blood pouring from his missing arm and God knows where else. Someone is there, someone is dragging him away. There are others. He loses consciousness.

The smell is only metal: always metal. Metal from the table with the restraints and the needles, metal from the arm and the bullets that fire, hot and precise, from the rifle that never leaves his hands. And the knives, and the blood, and the fear in people’s faces – it’s all the same smell, all of it. He wakes, and obeys, and when he doesn’t, they beat him, and he doesn’t feel that either. Then there is the chamber, and sleep, finally.

He forgets – did he ever have a name?

 

**_**_No_ ** _ ** **_**_,_ ** _ ** **_**_I don't think you do_ ** _ **

 

He knew that face – he knows the voice, especially, and the name that this man’s lips just pronounced, so heavy on his mind. Why? He must ask. He will regret it; still, he must ask.

They beat him up, force the image out of his mind, put him back under the ice.

 

**_**_There's no justice in the world_ ** _ **

 

This place ain’t so bad, it’s just as any other, only Bucky’s still confused, most of the time. He’s been keeping a journal, trying to piece it all together – his mind. Memories come and go. The most clear of them are from the war, though Bucky would rather it wasn’t. The war – there’s been many wars. Bucky forgets.

Sometimes, something good comes back to him, and those times make everything else worth it: memories of running around in busy streets, and a damp little apartment where his Ma would peel potatoes with her knobby fingers. His sister’s voice... And Steve. Little Steve, who stayed little as Bucky grew, but who’s character grew ten times bigger than Bucky’s could ever be. Bucky loved him, he thinks, or else he wouldn’t remember. So when those memories come, these fleeting flashes of past joys and sorrows and even doubts, he writes them down in the journal, and keeps the journal hidden behind the broken fridge, in this empty apartment where he lives for the time being. Little by little, it starts to make sense. Steve, his confused gaze, his lips pronouncing Bucky's name ever so hopefully... Bucky is sure he’s seen him again. He’s sure he’s tried to help.

One day, when Bucky comes back to the apartment, Steve is right there waiting for him, with that shield on his back and the serious look on his face, though there is something different in his eyes, something Bucky somehow understands. He is surprisingly big, not so surprisingly soft. Bucky wants to believe him. But then the others come, and Bucky isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to stop fighting.

 

**_**_There's no justice in the world_ ** _ **

**_**** _ **

Bucky has learned that war does not stop. There is always another; and it always comes for him, whether or not he tries to run. Bucky’s good at it, it’s true. He just hates it, is all. He hates how it changes him, but especially how it’s changed Steve. He can see it: Steve is tired as well. He’s been fighting for much longer than Bucky – his whole life, even though he never should have. Bucky understands, now; sometimes you can’t run, that’s just the way it is. And Steve never ran, Steve always stood and fought, no matter the odds. Bucky is tired of war; he never chose it. But it was true yesterday, and it still is today – wherever Steve goes, he will follow; that’s just the way they are.

**_**** _ **

**_**_And there never was_ ** _ **

 

Steve is cooking, like he used to, but his frame is bigger now, of course. Bucky still forgets it is, sometimes, and upon looking up, he is surprised to find him so big. He won’t ever say it, but in his head, whenever he thinks of him, Steve is young and boyish and his face is always bruised in some way or another, because the punks who’d beat him up always went for the bad punches, the cowards, they really wanted their anger to show loud and bright on little Steve’s face. Of course, Steve could never keep his mouth shut. He deserved most of these punches. Still, they were cowards; always fled the moment Bucky appeared, or Steve finally fell to the ground, unconscious after getting up too many times. Bucky would find him later in the night; he knew where to search, or Steve would come back home with that red swollen face, and for once, he’d be quiet.

Steve is quiet tonight, but it’s the good kind. It’s the kind only Bucky knows, and knowing that brings the little sting of joy in his heart that he’s a bit ashamed to feel: Steve is home–quiet, thoughtful and calm. Bucky can’t feel the rage in him anymore, and it soothes his own. Steve’s eyes have been tired for a long time now. Instinctively, Bucky searches the little knot in his brow; the serious face. He cannot find it.

Things have changed. The apartment isn’t damp, and when Steve breathes, his chest rises full and healthy under his shirt. Perhaps this time, the war really has ended for them. Things have changed. They are both home.


End file.
